


Through The Looking Glass

by Pinkandglitterdinosaur



Series: Chromatic Fear God and Its Goth Boyfriend [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, Mentioned Gertrude Robinson, No beta we die like archival assistants, No beta we kayak like Tim, Oliver Banks is already an avatar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27259957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkandglitterdinosaur/pseuds/Pinkandglitterdinosaur
Summary: “You truly are a much better Archivist than the last one,” said a voice that was entirely wrong. Jon sighed and absently scratched at his hand.“I don’t have the time for this, Michael.” He very much hoped that his voice wasn’t shaking, but he couldn’t quite hear it over the static.“Time isn’t real,” the thing droned..Okay, so I am aware that at the end of A Distorted Portrait of Gerry Keay I said that he had passed into the End without problem but now I'm taking that back. Deal with it. This is an AU of an AU.
Relationships: Gerard Keay & Michael | The Distortion, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay/Michael | The Distortion, Michael | The Distortion & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Michael | The Distortion/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Chromatic Fear God and Its Goth Boyfriend [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983946
Comments: 18
Kudos: 76





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings are always in the end notes

No matter what he did, Jon could not escape that awful yellow door. It had been several days since Helen Richardson was swallowed back into those hallways from his very office, and every room he found himself in has had one more door than it reasonably should. He was thankful, at least, that he hadn’t seen anyone enter it to subsequently become victim to the thing that was stalking him.

Just thinking about the door and the thing inside it made his hand itch under the bandages. It was healing considerably faster than he was dreading, having it be a “supernatural” wound and all. He was glad that it was his left hand, though.

“Who bloody stabs someone’s hand with their finger?” he muttered to himself, into a cup of to-go coffee. “Ah, yes, the bone-hand man.” Jon was used to the odd looks he’d get on the Tube to and from work. Most people, and they would deny it if you asked, tend to listen in when somebody talks to themself. Most people, and with this they would agree, would assume drugs were involved when someone says “the bone-hand man.”

He didn’t mind. He always felt like he was being watched, nowadays, even in a locked room with the windows drawn. At least in public he could see who was watching him.

Oddly enough, the yellow door wasn’t hiding in the Tube. It never was, and this was slightly suspicious, though Jon figured that it couldn’t very bloody well blend in if it tried. Could the door be other colors?

.

“You truly are a much better Archivist than the last one,” said a voice that was entirely wrong. Jon didn’t even bother to stop recording after the statement, knowing that it was finicky and might just turn itself back on. He sighed and absently scratched at his hand.

“I don’t have the time for this, Michael.” Jon very much hoped that his voice wasn’t shaking, but he couldn’t quite hear it over the static.

“Time isn’t real,” the thing droned, coming to sit on his desk. It shifted right to the center of everything Jon had been working on and sat cross legged, gazing expectantly. He made a point of not looking at it, rather tired of all the headaches. He might need a new lens prescription if he lives through this.

“I’m working.” He closed his eyes when he realized that its hair was always in the corner of his vision. “If you want to bother me, or possibly drive me insane, please avoid doing so on company time.”

“Oh!” it gasped, excited. “You could have just said that, Archivist.” Again, with the laughter. Always the laughter, static sharp like broken glass and steel wool and too much wasabi. Sometimes it even managed to project the smell of dog shit into his mouth with that grating laugh. When he reached for his mug of tea, courtesy of an otherwise useless assistant, he was appalled to find that it was seawater complete with microscopic organisms that wriggled around on his tongue even after he spit it out.

“Leave my office!” he yelled to an empty room. It was empty, right? He took a quick glance under the desk to be sure. An empty room.


	2. Chapter 1: Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon dragged the back of his hand across his lips to catch the blood before it could hit the floor and stomped to the sink to lean over it. “Can you turn down your volume while you’re at it? I would rather not bleed to death from my facial ortifices.” This prompted a snickering.
> 
> “How delightful, I’ve always enjoyed the color red.” Michael, again, sounded far away, like it had moved to another room. “I would love to see you drenched in it, sometime.”
> 
> “Delightful,” Jon repeated under his breath.
> 
> “But not now, I still have use for you with your red stored safely inside you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings at the end of the chapter.

Jon sighed, his brain felt heavy in his skull and his hair was standing on its ends. In other words, he felt like he always felt after a chat with Elias Bouchard. He didn’t like the man and never did. Elias always gave off the vibe of a predator, though this directly conflicted with everything anybody knew about him (he definitely smokes pot, and rumor had it that he used to do so in the Institute, even). His academic records were subpar, probably thanks to the reason mentioned above, and suggested that he was in no way going to pounce and flay someone alive. Jon felt otherwise.

Habit carried his feet out of the building and down the street before he realized that was what he was doing. Of course, it was long past sunset and long past the end of his shift, but he had been forced out by Elias under the grounds that “such an important member of our archives team needs sleep like anybody else.”

Creep.

But he did have a point, somewhere under all that weirdly heavily layered brown-nosing. Jon reached his flat in no time, as he was busy thinking about what motives a man like that could possibly have involving himself. Jon continued to get caught on the idea that it was some weird fetish thing that he would never understand, and visibly paled each time.

He was recovering from his own self-inflicted torture when he jabbed the key into the lock on his door and slipped inside, dropping his bag on the floor and falling face first onto the couch.

“Are you usually so oblivious?”

Jon scrambled up and stood to face the intruder, all together disappointed and relieved that it was Michael when he very well should have been terrified. Said intruder was perched on the back of the sofa like a monkey. If a monkey wore neon and pink sweater vests.

“Get out of my house, Michael,” he commanded, pointing at the front door instinctively.

“But I made an appointment,” it laughed back, making him uncomfortably aware of how sharp its teeth were. There were far too many teeth, especially for something even vaguely human-shaped. Jon sputtered in the attempt to find words that could remotely describe the emotions he was feeling.

“An appointment?” is what he settled for. The next laugh tickled the back of his throat and behind his eyes.

“Yes, you told me to bother you, but not on company time. So here I am, Archivist!”

This, quite sharply, reminded Jon of telling wishes to a genie or making deals at a crossroads. Was there a certain point of etiquette for interacting with monsters that he was unaware of? Or was this just Michael doing what Michael does? He had a feeling that asking wouldn’t provide any answers and possibly just give him more questions.

So he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, naturally very ticked about what few options he had. He said a silent prayer to a God he was very sure made a point of practicing non-interference, then faced the thing that was projecting colors onto the walls of his flat.

He looked it straight in the swirling, ever-changing, uneven eyes. “Stay here until I come back,” he growled. Jon started the trek to his bedroom and was halfway down the hall before he even thought to add, “Please.”

Normally, he wouldn’t decide to take a shower when there was an entity in his flat that had previously suggested that it would love to cause him harm, but today he felt stubborn. He actually wasn’t planning on taking a shower at all that night until Michael showed up. Jon, standing beneath the under-pressured freezing water, spent a full minute convincing himself that it was necessary to do this. He had to show that Thing that he wasn’t afraid of it. He was, of course, especially now that he was entirely vulnerable, but he preferred to pretend he wasn’t.

Jon used to enjoy showers, he really did. Recently, however, he didn’t much care for them. Sure, the scars were becoming lighter every day as opposed to the bright pink circles maring his entire right side like freckles, but they were still there. They watched him and glared at him like eyes, or maybe just empty sockets, eyes having long since been eaten by worms. He still wasn’t sure whether he was proud to have survived Prentiss, or ashamed that she had gotten so close without his notice.

He made a habit of not facing the mirror when he got out, but was pleasantly surprised to find that where his bathroom mirror used to be was a black void instead. Maybe Michael’s presence had a few benefits after all.

Jon dressed quickly and didn’t bother to dry his hair, leaving it to soak the back of his shirt. When he reentered the front room, he also discovered that Michael was literally exactly where he left it.

“Uh,” he started. “You can move now, I guess.”

“Thank you very much _sir_ ,” it crooned, melting over and through the couch like warm ice cream. Its limbs were almost noodle-like, just flopping down to the floor, and its torso was folded over the back of the sofa in a way that reminded Jon of a snake. He absently thought if it had any bones at all and if it could decide to not use them.

“Don’t call me that.” Calling him Archivist was bad enough, and he already had to deal with Tim referring to him only as Boss or Boss-Man.

“Okay, Mr. Sims,” it corrected with a face-splitting grin. This gave Jon the impression that the nicknames would only worsen if he continued to argue.

“What is it you wanted to talk about?”

“I am not a creature of ‘wants’, Mr. Sims,” Michael pointed out. “But I suppose I could indulge in your ignorance on the matter.”

“I am going to be honest and tell you that I have no idea what any of that really means.” He began preparing himself a cup of instant coffee, to provide an excuse as to not look at the thing slowly merging with his sofa. It laughed at him.

“Of course, Mr. Sims, why would I be anything other than confusing and a nuisance?” The thing sounded far nearer that Jon was comfortable with, and he was scared of turning around to find it right behind him.

“Yes, yes,” he said, stirring his coffee, still facing away. “Throat of Delusion and all that. But I can’t possibly begin to help you until I understand the problem. I am only human.”

“Poor thing, I wouldn’t wish such a state on my worst enemies.” He could tell Michael was trying to sound like he held the emotional capacity for pity, but its voice just wasn’t built for that. Its fake pity lasted barely a second before it was laughing again, and Jon watched something dark drip into his mug from his face. “But what a point you make!”

Jon dragged the back of his hand across his lips to catch the blood before it could hit the floor and stomped to the sink to lean over it. “Can you turn down your volume while you’re at it? I would rather not bleed to death from my facial ortifices.” This prompted a snickering.

“How delightful, I’ve always enjoyed the color red.” Michael, again, sounded far away, like it had moved to another room. “I would love to see you drenched in it, sometime.”

“Delightful,” Jon repeated under his breath.

“But not now, I still have use for you with your red stored safely inside you.” Jon jumped when the voice came from right next to his left ear and instinctively turned to see it leaning against the counter with him. Now that he noticed, he realized that his whole left side felt like pins and needles.

“Right,” he grumbled.

“Your hair is so long, Mr. Sims,” it noted. “Is that in style these days? I had thought that society would have left that behind since I left.”

“Please stop being so cryptic. I still have no idea why you have me cornered like this.”

“As much as I do love to play games with you, I must admit that your point still stands.” It sighed, almost like it was disappointed. “Have you ever met Gerard Keay?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“And what do people say about him these days?”

“Nothing much. The son of Mary Keay, informal assistant to Gertrude Robinson.” Jon wasn’t looking at Michael, but he felt a slight wave of anger when he mentioned those names. It felt like opening a dishwasher, when the hot steam rushes out. “But he went missing years ago, presumed dead. And since he worked with the institute, I don’t doubt that he is.”

There was a brief silence.

“That’s where his story was supposed to end, Mr. Sims,” it whispered. “But for a reason unknown to me, it didn’t.”

Did Michael know Gerard Keay? Was it even capable of forming the kind of friendship that Jon suspected they had?

It continued, “The Bookburner was not consumed by the End. He died, yes, but something happened to prevent his soul from entering the Inevitable. He reached his finale, but not his ending.”

“I think,” Jon started. “I think that you are making some sense, finally. But what do you want me to do about it? I mean, I’m not exactly an avatar of the End. I don’t even know what would have the power to do what you’re suggesting.”

“The Coroner told me where the Bookburner is being kept,” Michael stated, as serious as Jon had ever seen it. “I have tried to retrieve him on my own, but there are places that not even the Doors can penetrate.”

“Then what makes you think I could? And why?” he asked. “Why is this so important to you that you are actually seeking help from the Archivist of all people?” Without even trying, the Compulsion laced his words. It didn’t seem like Michael noticed, but if it did, it didn’t mind.

“Gerard Keay is a subject of fascination to me,” it explained, then paused, seemingly to think about its next words. “It is important to me that he is not suffering, and I fear that he is.” It gave a sad laugh. “Isn’t that funny? Me, afraid of something!” At this, it sobered and stood quietly again.

“Gertrude Robinson,” it grimaced. “Managed to seal off a room from the Spiral. Her warding in the archives is subpar at best, but somehow she accomplished much stronger protections in what I could only assume is her own special Artifact Storage. I do not exist enough to enter it, but you do.”

“Alright, say I decide to help you,” Jon offered. “What would I be looking for? What kind of item or object is needed to house a soul?”

“The Prophet told me that he is kept in a stone, likely a piece of jewelry. Though, other than that, I cannot give you any direction,” it concluded, and began to fuzz out. But it popped back with a sharp ‘clink’ noise. “Her room is in the tunnels, but it is hidden well enough that I can’t begin to comprehend where. Such is the disadvantages of not being.”

And then Michael was gone, leaving Jon alone again in his flat to wash his now drying blood down the kitchen sink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings include: body dysphoria, extreme guilt, PTSD (canon-typical and worm-related), nose bleed.
> 
> If I missed any, feel free the comment to let me know and I will add them.
> 
> a/n. My favorite thing I have written in a very long time is the part where Michael is a total creep and compliments Jon on the color of his blood. Absolute dream boyfriend.


	3. Chapter 2: Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerard stood speechless in front of the mirror in the men’s bathroom. He was inside the institute. That part was frightening enough, but what sat in the forefront of his mind was the fact that the face in the mirror wasn’t his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see content warnings at the end of the chapter.

Gerard stood speechless in front of the mirror in the men’s bathroom. He was inside the institute. That part was frightening enough, but what sat in the forefront of his mind was the fact that the face in the mirror wasn’t his.

This person whose face he was wearing, god what a way to start a sentence, was a good deal shorter than himself so he did notice immediately. But when he looked down, the body he was in was wearing office clothes, and that sort of cemented the deal. Who was he and how?

In the grimy glass he could see just how different they were. This man’s skin was much darker, but pock-marked with dozens upon dozens of perfectly circular scars down the left side of his face, and perhaps even under his clothes by the way they trailed beneath his collar. The glasses he was wearing were horrendous, really, but they drew attention away from how sucken his eyes looked. So maybe the guy did know how awful the glasses were.

Gerard didn’t even remotely recognize him. He had to have been a newer hire because Gerry had made sure to flirt with everyone on staff, but the vibes he was getting from the physical state of both the office he appeared in and the body, this poor bastard already knew about how the archives really worked.

The restroom door opened behind him.

“Oh, hey Boss,” the guest said, far too sweet for it to be genuine. “Oh don’t make that face, running into me is your fault. You forget to use your spooky mind reading powers?”

_ Spooky mind reading powers _ . He was inhabiting  _ The Archivist _ . This provided a whole new dilemma. So, before Gerard could accidentally let loose that he had possessed the fucking Archivist, he fled the bathroom and headed back to the office he woke up in.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, he called out for help. “Fuck, shit. Michael, holy fuck, I could really need some help.” Gerry spoke in a voice that was most definitely not his own. It was too deep, too scratchy. He stood with his back pressed against the door while he waited for a different door to arrive.

“Archivist?” a voice echoed, and Michael crawled out from under the desk. “I never would have pegged you as someone who could curse.” There was a long silence while they looked at each other. Michael looked the same as he remembered, so that was reassuring. “Did you find him, Archivist? My Bookburner?”

Gerry heard a sound like a sob, and lifted his hand to cover his mouth as soon as he realized it was him. “Holy fuck, Michael,” he whispered. “It’s me, oh my god. What did you do.”

Michael’s hair froze in place and he felt its stare like he never had before. The look on its face could only be described as suspicion. 

“Wait, oh god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable especially after you had just done me a favor.” Gerry was rambling. “Jesus, I don’t think I even thanked you before I passed out. How long ago was that? How many days has it been since you fixed that first tattoo?”

“My Bookburner,” it repeated, still unsure. “You are… My Bookburner.”

“Yes I’m your fucking Bookburner, Michael. How many days has it been? How long have I been out? And why am I  _ inside _ the Archivist?” Gerry had barely finished talking before the breath was knocked out of him. Michael had just engulfed him in a hug.

Overall, he mostly only felt shock. Before, he had only made physical contact with it through their hands, but suddenly its hands were on his back. His vision was full of swirling hues of yellow, and it was beautiful and comforting. Michael’s face was buried in his shirt when it finally spoke.

“Time isn’t real.”

Just the absurdity of the statement in such a context was enough to make him laugh. But that laugh wasn’t his. “Why am I in the wrong body? Where’s my actual one?” Michael squeezed him tighter, which was fine because it didn’t feel like he was boxed in, no, it was more like he was... protected. This felt good, actually.

“You died, Gerry,” it warbled. “And I tried to save you but The Archivist still took you away from me. She stole you from me, Gerry, she wouldn’t let you die.” Its voice sounded like ripples on a lake, or a skipping rock along the surface of the water. It was upset, it had emotions and it felt them like a person did. He cautiously sank a hand into its hair, ultimately surprised that it didn’t hurt.

“I kept you, though, Gerry,” it continued. “You’re sleeping in the corridors, but you didn’t go to Terminus. The Prophet said you weren’t finished dying, that the Archivist wasn’t letting you die. She was keeping you from dying.”

Michael’s voice was falling apart, bouncing off the walls and echoing at the wrong intervals. “Shit,” Gerry whispered. “So I shouldn't be here at all, then.” At this, he felt something sharp tear the back of the shirt he was wearing. “Okay, Michael. Just listen for a second.”

When he felt Michael’s hands relax, he went on. “I’m so sorry that you’ve gone through this, Michael, but there has to be another way for us to talk. I’m literally possessing someone else’s body right now and I don’t want to accidentally hurt them.”  _ And you’ve already ruined their shirt _ .

It hesitated before stepping back, but grabbed one of his hands.  _ But they aren’t really my hands, are they _ ?

“This ring,” it said, fiddling with a thin silver band adorned with a red gemstone, worn on the index finger of whoever Gerry was. “This is you. If you remove it, you’ll go away again.”

Gerard looked down at where their hands touched. He sighed. “Guess I’ll be going again,” he said with a sad smile. “I don’t know whether I want to come back or not, actually. So, in case I don’t, could you do something for me? Just real quick?”

Michael nodded.

“Okay, I know this isn't really my body, but for the sake of goodbyes and shit,” he paused. “For the sake of goodbyes, could I maybe kiss you? Maybe?” This prompted Michael to think for a second, possibly about whether it was corporeal enough to kiss or whether it was safe. But then it nodded again, which made Gerry sigh with relief. “You might have to bend down a little,” he chuckled. “Do you mind if I touch your face?”

“You may.” It leaned down and its hair surrounded them like a curtain. Gerry was pleasantly surprised to find out that its face, too, felt somewhat humanoid. While he ghosted his fingers across its cheeks, he wondered if Michael was existing like this on purpose, just for him.

He made sure to murmur a thank you when he pulled Michael down to meet him, though he still had to stand on his toes. Their lips met softly, and only just barely, but Gerry came away with the taste of construction paper and blueberries. He wondered if he kissed it again would he taste something different.

Before he could make himself sad by thinking about it, he slid the ring off his finger.

.

Michael watched as Gerry removed the ring and immediately saw the difference between him and the Archivist, who nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw it towering over him and let out a loud yelp. He ducked and covered his head with his arms.

“You finally getting murdered in there, Boss?” a voice called from behind the office door, a bit cheerfully. The Archivist didn’t even bother to answer.

“Hello, Archivist,” Michael said, still standing over him. It held out a hand. “Hand over the ring.”

“When did you get here?” he exclaimed, voice cracking. “You just came out of nowhere! Why do you do this to me? And why can I taste paper?”

“The ring, Archivist.”

“Whatever, just take it. I think it’s the wrong one because I just put it on and nothing happened except  _ you _ showed up.”

Michael held the ring carefully between two fingers and summoned a door, leaving Jon to recover from his state of shock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: mention of past illegal drug use, body swap (sorta), strong language, mention of death, possible dubcon because Gerry and Michael do share a quick kiss even though Gerry is in Jon's body.
> 
> I haven't changed the rating, but if this does bother you PLEASE comment and I will change it to dubcon.


	4. Chapter 3: Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I would like you to understand that, as an avatar, my official advice is to destroy the ring.”
> 
> “However,” he continues. He holds up a hand, signalling me to save my judgement until he is finished. I will, but only for him. “As a friend, Michael, I will help you in any way I can.”
> 
> My body is weird again. I am excited. He looks at me and smiles. What do I look like to him? What does my form do when I feel this way? How does he know how to connect a feeling to what his eyes perceive as me and mine? Does my happiness make him happy or is he smiling out of courtesy? What lengths will he be willing to go for friendship?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, content warnings at the end of the chapter.
> 
> a/n. This one is really short but I really liked where it ended so yall will just have to deal with it.

Once Gerry’s ring was placed safely in Michael’s corridors, in Gerry’s room, it immediately went about the task of locating the Coroner, Oliver Banks. Had it not been Michael, such a task would have come easy. But it is Michael, and Michael can only focus on a few things at a time. The movement of the Doors comes easy, like breathing or blinking. And like blinking, it can ‘see’ the environment. And like breathing, it can ‘smell’ the people around it. But of course, Michael has something of a human span of comprehension, and it is not the All Knowing.

For as much as it advertises that time isn’t real, Michael does seem to have retained the ability to register the passing of time. This is not something that it finds fun. Searching the streets and buildings and alleys of London for a whiff of Death. Having set tasks and solid motivations is exhausting to it, as well. Michael not-exists in a state of chaos and unreality, which makes confusion its natural state. If you asked it the color of the sky on a good day, it might answer with the name of the Prime Minister. Michael is a paradox and an oxymoron, a not-living not-breathing contradiction of itself. When it happens to have a self, that is.

.

“Coroner,” I say. Most people prefer to be greeted. Today he is standing behind the counter of a small shop. What kind of shop is it? What sort of things does he sell? Why are there no customers? Does he usually have customers?

“Hello, Michael,” he says back. The Coroner wears clothes that remind me of my BookBurner. “You found Gerard Keay.” This is not a question.

“The Archivist wore him, and so he wore the Archivist.”

“That does sound interesting. Try it again.” The Coroner is teaching me to be comprehensible. Sometimes, I don’t want to ‘try again.’ But Oliver Banks is a good friend, so I ‘try again’ for him.

“My Bookburner is the jewel,” I start, careful to use one word at a time. “He is on a ring. The Archivist wore him on his finger, but then Gerry wore the Archivist’s body.”

I take a long time to fish out the correct words to form an explanation, but the Coroner leans against the wood of the countertop and nods along when I use a good word. Why does he wait and listen? What purpose does our friendship serve? What kind of wood is he leaning against? Is the shop hot or cold? Does he enjoy our conversations or does he tolerate them?

When I finish, he says, “I know that you want to give Gerard life again, in his own body. And I know that you still have it in your corridors. I have spent a good amount of time thinking about this situation I’ve somehow gotten myself involved in and I would like you to understand that, as an avatar, my official advice is to destroy the ring.”

“However,” he continues. He holds up a hand, signalling me to save my judgement until he is finished. I will, but only for him. “As a friend, Michael, I will help you in any way I can.”

My body is weird again. I am excited. He looks at me and smiles. What do I look like to him? What does my form do when I feel this way? How does he know how to connect a feeling to what his eyes perceive as me and mine? Does my happiness make him happy or is he smiling out of courtesy? What lengths will he be willing to go for friendship?

“Calm down, Michael,” he says. He is laughing, but he is holding his ears. “You are incredibly loud when you smile so much.” What does he hear when I smile? Do other people hear my smile? What do they hear? Does my frown make a noise? I cover my (mouth?) with a (hand?).

“Alright, since we have that settled,” Oliver Banks says. “I think I might want to see Gerard’s body, if that is okay. I have a few ideas of what might happen if you were to put the ring on it but I can’t be sure.”

I am impatient. I gesture behind him, because there wasn’t a door there when I appeared. He sighs.

“I’m genuinely sorry, Michael, but I can’t go inside. You’ll have to bring it back into this reality for me to see it.”

I frown. Gerry isn’t safe outside.

“I know, Michael, but I won’t be able to see with the End if I’m inside there.” Oliver Banks looks sad. Why is he sad? He doesn’t know Gerry like me. Why is he sad? He can live the rest of his unnatural ‘life’ without Gerry. Why is he sad? Whether Gerry lives does not affect him. “My flat upstairs is safe from all the powers unless I invite them in. If you’re worried about the Corruption, my flat is almost as safe as your corridors.”

“I trust you, Coroner,” I say. “I do not trust you with him. He is a piece of me, now. I do not know if he can exist without me, Coroner.”

He looks sad. Why is he sad? He is looking down at the shop counter. What kind of wood is it? I leave his shop and his sight and his reality and his dimension and I retreat back to my Bookburner because everything I do I do for him.

.

I watch the room sway in time with my pretend breathing. It changes color when I pretend to blink eyes that I do not have. The walls pulse with a lie of a heartbeat. Gerry does none of these things, so I do it for him. I do not hold his soul in what are not hands and I do not weep what are not tears, all for him. I will try to wake him up now.

What are not fingers are too sharp for me to feel comfortable putting the ring on what are fingers, but I can’t risk asking for help. Oliver Banks wants to help. Why does he want to help? What does he receive if Gerry wakes up? I slide his soul onto his right thumb.

I stand impatient. How long have I been waiting? How long has passed since I reintroduced his soul to his body? Am I feeling excitement or anxiety? Am I feeling happiness or dread? Why isn’t he breathing? Should he be breathing yet? Will he need to breathe? Will he breathe when he wakes up? Is he breathing? Is that a breath?

He breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: unreality, conversations on death and on a soul existing after death, mention of the possession from last chapter.


	5. Chapter 4: Complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a door on the wall, behind a set of shelves holding scented candles. Of course, the door was new. It hadn’t been there until just then.
> 
> “I am just about to open shop, Michael,” I called out. “But I can wait to do that until you leave, since you’re trying to be so sneaky about it.”
> 
> Silence. I turned back to the door behind the shelves. “Is everything alright, Michael? Did Gerard make it back?” Silence.
> 
> “You’re worrying me. At least tell me why you are here?”
> 
> “My Bookburner is wrong, Coroner,” a voice echoed from everywhere except the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2999 words. What an accomplishment, honestly. I do this for attention so don't forget to comment and leave kudos!
> 
> Content warnings are always at the end of the chapter.

Being able to see the vines has its advantages. I know who to trust with a loan and who not to buy things from on the internet. Most people who wander into the magic shop were looking for it, as well, so folks stick out if they don’t entirely belong in this sort of establishment.

But I can guarantee that none of the magic sold up front is anything more than your garden-variety self-practice supplies, but there are a few things out back that are more than rosemary and sea salt. The potent stuff is, however, detectable to those who are in the know.

Like the young black woman who let herself in after closing, wearing clothes much too warm for the weather. No vines attached. Her hair was solid white, almost blue, from tips to end, and shaved close to her scalp. Her footsteps held a confidence and a weight that most souls don’t possess.

“I assume you know that I have closed up for the night?” I ask, still looking for vines. But making eye contact was a mistake. Her irises and pupils were a foggy gray, surrounded by inky black where the whites should have been. I couldn’t help but muse to myself that she hadn’t come for the lavender bath salt.

“Oliver Banks, yes?” she asked in a voice so familiar. It was soothing, like honey and chamomile. I nodded. “You’ve been kind to my children, Oliver, so before I say anything else I would like to thank you.” She sighed, “Not many people are as accommodating as yourself, though I would be wrong in referring to you as a person, no?”

“I haven’t been removed from person-hood very long, and I am very sentimental. I don’t mind being a person every once in a while. I actually find it endearing.” I made sure to keep her in my field of vision when I turned to hang up the broom. “Would I be wrong in assuming that you are the Mother of Puppets?”

She smiled warmly. “You are close. I am Annabell Cane; I speak for Mother from time to time.”

“And what is it that brings the Mother’s mouthpiece to my humble little shop?”

“You recently came across a special silk shawl. I saw that you planned to drop it off at the Institute but I would very much rather have it back.” While she spoke, I watched her stoop down to the floor and carefully brush something with her finger before standing back up. In her hand was a wispy little spider, barely even enough body mass to be considered solid. The thing would stand no chance against a breeze. She held it gently on the back of her hand and gazed at it lovingly as she continued speaking to me. “Mother is actually quite the sentimental type, like yourself, Oliver. That shawl holds so many memories.”

“If you can promise to keep it from reentering into the public, then we can most certainly strike up a deal. I hope you weren’t looking to get it for free, Ms. Cane.” I followed the spider as it crawled up over the top of her coat sleeve and into her hair.

“Of course not!” she gasped theatrically. I doubt she could do anything without theatrics. “No, this is a business transaction, of course! Though I am afraid I am only authorized to deal in favors at the moment, dear.”

“A favor from the Mother is much more valuable than any cash you’d give me for an object like that. Where are the strings on this deal, Ms. Cane? This is the Mother, there are obviously strings attached.”

“Yes, she is quite thorough, isn’t she?” Annabell’s voice felt even softer, but only for a moment. “This is between you and her, though, dear. I am no negotiator. You might want to prepare for some webs between the vines tonight, Oliver.”

“Shall I fetch the shawl for you then?” I asked, but only for appearances. The shawl had already left my shop.

“No, but thank you for the offer.” She turns to leave, but stops. “I want to thank you again. Not just from Mother, but from myself as well. The children speak highly of you.” With this, she sent me one last smile, and left. When she had disappeared from sight, I took a sweeping look about the ceiling vaults for webs. There was a single web, tucked away in a far corner, occupied by a single, wispy spider.

“Thank you for the visit, Mother,” I said. It was only polite to call her by the name she so preferred. “I look forward to seeing you again soon.”

.

There was a door on the wall, behind a set of shelves holding scented candles. Of course, the door was new. It hadn’t been there until just then.

“I am just about to open shop, Michael,” I called out. “But I can wait to do that until you leave, since you’re trying to be so sneaky about it.”

Silence. I turned back to the door behind the shelves. “Is everything alright, Michael? Did Gerard make it back?” Silence.

“You’re worrying me. At least tell me why you are here?”

“My Bookburner is wrong, Coroner,” a voice echoed from everywhere except the door.

“Is there any way I can help? Do you want me to invite you into my flat?” No answer. “Okay, go upstairs. Customers can wait.”

_ And unlike their concerns, necromancy is time-sensitive _ . Immediately, the door was gone and I heard a loud thump directly above me, accompanied by some cursing.  _ Michael doesn’t curse _ . I raced to re-close all the blinds and fly up the stairs two steps at a time.

I slammed the door behind me and scrambled to my bedroom, where the sounds came from. “Michael,” I called, giving maybe a second’s notice before I swung open the bedroom door. Michael stood facing away, gazing downward at the heap of darkness at its (feet?). I took a deep breath.

“Alright, Michael. I’m going to approach you now. I have nothing in my hands and I am walking slowly towards you,” I narrated, but it didn’t look away from what I assumed was Gerard Keay. “Can I look at him, Michael?”

When it nodded, I carefully edged around it to get to him. Gerard was curled up and shaking violently, holding his ears. “Please nod if you can hear me, Gerard.” When he didn’t respond, I knelt down and reached out to pull his hair back, but stopped short when Michael started emitting a loud, continuous popping noise. “Apologies, Michael.” I pulled my hands away and held them up.

“I’m sorry, I won’t touch him,” I said again, when the popping stopped. I stood back up and looked at Michael. It was still looking at Gerard. “I would be grateful if you could move him to my bed. He will be much more comfortable there than on the floor.” And with that I slowly stepped away, still holding my hands near my head.

As soon as I was far enough away, Michael engulfed him with a form that didn’t make sense. It flickered, glitched almost, then (what I could only most accurately describe as) crawled onto the bed. It curled in around him, like a python or a liquid, submerging him in colors that didn't exist.

“Thank you, Michael,” I said. “I will stay right here, okay? But I can’t help him unless you help me. I need to know what happened.”

When it finally spoke, its words were tinged with a heavy buzzing. “He hurts. Everything hurts him. I hurt him. His body is wrong, I made it wrong. It was in the corridors and it’s wrong and it hurts.”

From what I understood, I had, unfortunately, guessed that this would happen. Being exposed to the distortion for such a long period of time, even without a psyche to damage, Gerard’s body was, for all intents and purposes and for lack of a better description,  _ wrong _ . And taking into account that Michael is no healer, whatever caused his death is still actively affecting his body.

“Okay, I think I understand. Thank you, Michael,” I say. “But nobody can help him like this. Could you please remove the ring so that we can fix the problem? As soon as we know it will be safe for him, we can put him back. Is that okay?”

There was a moment of heavy silence between the two of us before Gerard gave out a sharp sob. Michael’s form flickered angrily, and then Gerard went limp.

“Thank you, Michael,” I whispered. It didn’t move.

.

“Can I come closer?” he asks. I like that he asks. My Bookburner isn’t hurting. My Bookburner is resting again.

“Yes,” I say. I do not want to leave Gerry.

“I’m going to sit on the bed,” the Coroner states. I like that he tells me. “I’m sorry that it didn’t work out just yet. I can see how much you miss him.” Why is his voice so quiet? Why is he being quiet? Should I be quiet? I look at him. He is looking at me. Should I thank him for trying?

“Thank you,” I whisper back. I hold Gerry tight, he is getting cold again. There is more quiet. What is Oliver thinking about? Is he thinking about me? Is he thinking about My Bookburner? Do I want to know what he is thinking about? Why do I want to know? I do not break the quiet.

“I could wear the ring,” he says. He is examining my expression. Do I have a facial expression? What does it look like? What does he see in it? “You miss him a lot. If I wore the ring, then you could talk to him again. If only for a little while.”

Why does he want this? What does he get out of this? How do I ask him? What does he want in return? Gerry is safe here. I trust Oliver Banks. So I separate myself from Gerry and I brush his hair out of his face, careful to keep my fingers from hurting him.

“You have been such a good friend to me, Michael. So long as you don’t skewer me or cut my hair, then I want to help you. Please.” He is looking directly at me. I hold out my (hand?) and let him take the ring from it. “Thank you.”

He stands up and opens a drawer on his night stand, taking out a pad of paper and a pen. He carefully writes several lines of neat words and removes the page from the binding.

“This is for Gerard, don’t worry,” he says, giving me a smile. “I know you can’t read.”

.

Gerry opened his eyes. He was in an apartment, but not his. He was sitting on a very nice couch and the air smelled like expensive incense. This was much better than whatever was going on last time he woke up.

Whatever happened, it was awful. It was frightening and painful in every possible way. But now he felt fine. He hesitated before looking down at his lap. Who was he today?

A pair of dark, but soft, hands held a handwritten note. His ring was being worn on the left thumb. He reached up to his face, brushing the pads of his fingers over foreign skin.

“Gerry.” He turned to his left, where Michael was sitting on the arm of the couch, watching him closely. He smiled.

“Yeah. Hi,” he said. But he quickly remembered. “Why am I… What happened to my body? There’s something off, isn’t there.” It nodded, but didn’t look away.

“He wrote you a note,” Michael stated. It scooted closer as if to read it.

“Can you even read, Michael?” Gerry asked, not nearly as concerned about current events as he wanted to be.

“No,” it hummed.

“Well, in that case I will have to read it aloud, yeah?” When it hummed again, he chuckled. “Here goes. ‘I am Oliver Banks, and I am a good friend of Michael’s. You are in my living room right now. Earlier, Michael attempted to put you back in your original body but we encountered some complications. It is still in the bedroom, and the door is closed, in case you want to avoid it. I am taking the day off from work, so feel free to go about as you please. Unless you plan on cutting my hair or giving me some stab wounds, I am giving you complete authority to use my body until tomorrow. Have fun,’ and then he signed it with a heart.”

Michael spoke first. “Interesting.”

“Yeah, I have to concur with that,” Gerry replied. He sighed and folded up the note. “I wish I didn’t remember the so-called ‘complications.’ That was kind of rocky.” Subconsciously, he reached up to rub the side of his head. “But, hey! You have friends! I didn’t know you had friends, Michael.”

“Mm, just him,” it said. “He enjoys me.”

Gerry raised his eyebrows and grinned. “He enjoys you? Do you enjoy him?”

“I think so.”

“Yeah? How do you enjoy him? Sitting up? Laying down? Sideways? In the kitchen or in the bedroom?” Gerry asked, trying very hard not to laugh. Michael frowned.

“Yes?” it answered, not quite sure what the question was. Gerry was laughing full heartedly now. “Did I say the wrong thing?”

“No, no,” he sputtered, wiping his eyes. “No, I’m just teasing you. Oh man, you poor poor soul. Oh geez.” He took a moment to calm back down. “Are the two of you an item?”

“An item,” Michael repeated.

“Together. Involved. Seeing each other. Sleeping together,” he listed off. “There are a ton of different ways to say it. But mainly, I mean dating.”

“Dating,” it repeated again. “I don’t know.” It looked Gerry in the eyes. “How would I know? Michael didn’t date.”

Gerry thought for a moment. “Okay, well, first off, have you kissed him?”

“No.”

“Do you cuddle with him?”

“I don’t know.”

“I honestly think there’s something here, like potential, but I don’t think you two are dating yet.”

“Oh.” It sounded vaguely disappointed, but such abstract emotions were hard to pin down when it came to Michael. “Are we dating?”

Gerry hesitated. Then he frowned. “I don’t know. It might be hard to date a dead guy. But then again, you don’t even really exist anyway.”

“We kissed.”

“That we did,” he said, smiling again. Michael had been steadily getting closer over the course of their conversation. Of course it had ulterior motives, why wouldn’t it. “Want to try it a second time?”

It nodded.

Gerry pulled his legs underneath him so he could reach and quickly pulled Michael in for a kiss. Kissing it was like morphine, like speedballing, like a rollercoaster with no seatbelts. It was a mess of sensations when Gerry pressed his lips up against Michael’s. His hands were buried in its hair, tangled up around his fingers and wrists like it had a mind of its own.

Gerry pulled away to breathe, but Michael caught his lip between its teeth, immediately drawing blood. He let out a quick hiss and pulled a hand back to check the damage.

“Careful, Michael,” he chuckled. It was staring at the new cut on his lips. “I would prefer not to leave any evidence. Biting is usually fine, but maybe not while I’m borrowing?” At this, Michael made a noise not unlike a growl.

“Why not?” it asked, grabbing his sides with too long fingers. “The Coroner said no stabbing. Biting isn’t stabbing.” It sounded like it was pouting, which was new.

“The Coroner? I’m inside the Coroner?” Gerry gasped. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hanging out with the literal embodiment of the End? Jesus Christ.” He tried to remove his other hand from Michael’s hair but found that it was stuck. Its hands tangled up in his shirt.

“Another kiss?” it asked, trying hard for puppy dog eyes but entirely unsure if it succeeded. Gerry thought about it for a good minute or so before crawling into its lap.

“You aren’t going to say ‘please’?” he teased, wrapping his free hand around its throat to hold it back. Its skin shifted colors under his grasp.

It whined, “Please?” and Gerry used his grip on its hair to pull it into another kiss, this time daring to shove his tongue inside its mouth, past its too sharp teeth. When it returned the favor, he was delighted to find out that its own tongue was longer than he was expecting.

There were many pleasant surprises to be found, like the fact that Oliver Banks didn’t have a gag reflex, as discovered when Michael teased its tongue past the back of his throat. After experimenting a little with that, Gerry leaned away to catch his breath.

“Michael,” he gasped. “Have you ever done this before?”

It hummed. “Done what?” It promptly distracted itself with kissing the underside of his jaw.

“Kissed someone like this, I mean.” He felt the gentle graze of teeth under his ear.

“No,” it stated.

“Do you,” Gerry started, hesitating. “Do you want to go a little further?” It made a noise of what might have been affirmation but also could have been the creak of a wooden chair while it nipped at his pulse. Startled, he yanked Michael’s hair and it made a buzzing sound in return.

“Sorry,” he muttered, his lips brushing against Michael’s ever so slightly. Its features were starting to blur together a little, so he closed his eyes and shifted in its lap. At some point, his shirt had come untucked and Michael’s fingers were brushing skin whenever they moved. He squirmed a little under their touch, accidentally grinding his hips against what he could only assume were Michael’s.

The doorbell rang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: body horror (spooky eyes), spiders, creepy spider lady, brief mention of necromancy, psychological torture, spiral-typical madness, territorial Michael / possessive Michael, hidden pining, body hopping / possession, sexual innuendos, heavy make out session


	6. Chapter 5: First Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The doorbell rang. Michael made no move to release me.
> 
> “There is someone at your door,” it said.
> 
> “Yes,” I replied. “I am going to get up now.” I had hoped that such a statement would prompt it to remove its hands, but apparently I had rotten luck. “You need to let go of me, Michael.”
> 
> It grumbled and let go, fingers still lingering as I shuffled off of it and to my feet. I cleared my throat and smoothed my shirt before making my way to the door, very aware of Michael’s gaze in a way I never had been before. I could only hope that I didn’t look as disheveled as I felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember to check the end notes for content warnings. But there is one I do want to put up front; there is some steamy action in this chapter but for the sake of preserving the rating I cut the scene short. I will be posting the rest of it in a separate work, though, so keep an eye out for that.
> 
> (They don't get any farther than kissing, really.)

I think the only way to describe what giving up control felt like is like anesthesia before surgery. Where your mind is working one moment and then suddenly you open your eyes from a blink to find that you’re groggy from sleep. So, when the ring left my finger, I took a deep breath and slowly began processing what my senses were telling me.

My senses were telling me a myriad of things. By the light, it couldn’t have been a whole lot later than when I put the ring on. My lip stung, my face was dramatically close to a shifting whirl of colors, and I was straddling someone's lap. This was unexpected. I knew what I was signing up for when I volunteered for the cause, of course, though I hadn’t expected to be confronted with it quite so directly.

I subconsciously shifted in Michael’s lap, only to discover more surprises. Its fingers had made their way under my shirt, one hand splayed across my back and the other holding my side.

The doorbell rang. Michael made no move to release me.

“There is someone at your door,” it said.

“Yes,” I replied. “I am going to get up now.” I had hoped that such a statement would prompt it to remove its hands, but apparently I had rotten luck. “You need to let go of me, Michael.”

It grumbled and let go, fingers still lingering as I shuffled off of it and to my feet. I cleared my throat and smoothed my shirt before making my way to the door, very aware of Michael’s gaze in a way I never had been before. I could only hope that I didn’t look as disheveled as I felt.

I hurried down the quick flight of stairs that doubled as my entryway and yanked open the door.

“Hi! Are you registered to vote?” a cheery voice asked. I slammed the door shut. All I could think was,  _ Emergency dealt with, time to panic _ . As I slid down the wall, collapsing on my ass on the floor, the room spun around me. I didn’t have time to calm down before the door opened again, hitting my shoe.

“Why are you on the floor?” the thing behind the door asked. I shook my head, I just needed to breathe for a moment. “Should I eat them?”

“No! Just,” I shouted. When I remembered that I was talking to something that probably didn’t understand what was happening, especially because I didn’t quite understand it myself, I continued in a much quieter voice. “Just please give me a minute to breathe. I’ll talk to you in a minute, I just need to breathe.”

.

Slowly making my way back up the stairs, thinking about how exactly to explain what just happened, while Michael watched from its open door was much easier than expected.

“Is Gerard alright?” I asked the air when I reached the top, and turned for the kitchen.

“Why were you afraid of the person at your door?” it asked back, from nowhere in particular.

I let out a sigh, “I’m not afraid of them. It’s a human thing that I’m willing to describe but I don’t really know if you’ll get it.” As I said this, I made my way to the tile floor of my tiny kitchen and laid down on my back, just to feel the cool surface underneath me. When I looked up, Michael was doing the same on my ceiling.

“I will try,” it replied. I supposed that it just wasn’t vibing with gravity that day.

“It might be something you’ve heard Gerard talk about before. But, you know, he probably didn’t ever freak out like that. When I say, I have a crush on you, do you understand what I’m talking about? Is that something you can comprehend?”

“A crush,” it repeated, as it tended to do. “Having crushes is emotional. Lots of feelings.”

“Specifically, feelings that tell your body to act stupid and panic when certain things happen. Like almost passing out in the doorway because you woke up in someone’s lap with your clothes askew.”

“And this is,” it paused, glitching slightly. “Bad?”

“No, I mean, not necessarily?”

“Coroner,” it interrupted. “Gerry made fun when I told him you are my friend.”

I laid there, waiting for it to continue, but it didn’t. It just stared down at me, hair and clothes floating gently with an invisible current.

“Well, how did you phrase it?” I asked. “Sometimes you say things in a way that makes it seem like you mean something else.”

“I told him I enjoy you.”

“Ah,” I drew in a breath and covered my face with my hands. “Yeah, that would be why he made fun, Michael.”

.

“I said it… Wrong,” I say. His face is hidden by his hands. Why is he hiding his face? Why do people hide their face? Is he embarrassed? Is he embarrassed by me? What does he look like when he is embarrassed? Does his skin get darker?

“I mean,” he pauses. “I am pretty sure he got what you meant but the way you said it makes it sound like you are talking about something else.”

“Something else,” I repeat. What does he mean by something else? What does it sound like I mean? Is it bad? What else could it possibly mean other than what I meant? Other than that I enjoy him and his presence and his voice and his hair and his solidity and his opacity?

Oliver takes a breath and looks at me. He is making a face. I do not know what this face means. “It sounds like you’re talking about sex, Michael.”

“And that is… bad.” I understand the implication now. That is something we have not done. That is something I have not done. Something that  _ people _ do, that Gerry does and Oliver does. He was making fun at the idea of my never having done that.

“No, no,” he sighs again. “It’s actually kind of funny, but it’s funny in a way that a word pun is.” Oliver is smiling now, but looking away. “So, no, it’s not bad.”

“You said you have a crush on me,” I mention. “Does My Bookburner have a crush on me?”

“Usually, a crush is only a crush if there’s no reciprocation. I am very sure that this isn’t a crush, especially after seeing what happened when I left you two alone for five minutes.”

“So,” I start. “I cannot do that with you, because it is a crush.” Oliver is quiet. Why is he quiet? Is he thinking? Have I said something wrong? What is he thinking about?

He isn’t quiet for too long. “I think you have it backwards, Michael.” He is looking away again. He has a hand over his mouth. I remember that his lip must hurt. “Are you suggesting that you want to do the things you do with Gerard, with me?”

.

It was quiet, not silent though, because nothing is ever silent with Michael around. I was very pointedly not looking at it but out of the corner of my eye I could still see the twirling and twisting shapes above me. Right then, it was making a pleasant hum that reminded me of being underwater.

“Are you?” I asked again. My voice may have cracked, but then again it might not have. I wasn’t really paying attention. And again it didn’t answer. It felt like we were going to be stuck in that moment forever, just living through the same seconds over and over for all time. I sighed in defeat.

“Do you want me to put the ring back on?”

“Not yet.”

That was unexpected. I wasn’t entirely sure what I did expect but it wasn’t that. After another second of laying on the floor I sat up. “Well, do you have anything else you needed me for?”

“Do you have anything else you needed me for?” it parroted back. My lip had already stopped throbbing but it still stung.

.

Kissing Oliver is different from kissing Gerry. Gerry is fast and rough where Oliver is slow and gentle. What does Oliver feel when he kisses me? Is it pleasant? What do I look like to him? What does he think about when his lips touch (mine?)? Am I allowed to touch him with my (hands?)? Would he enjoy that? His fingers brush my (face?). What does my (skin?) feel like to him? Is it pleasant?

We are sitting on the floor. Is he comfortable here? Would he prefer to be somewhere else? I want to be closer. We sit cross legged on the tile. I want to be in his lap. Would he enjoy that? Am I allowed to do that? What would he do if I was? Where would his hands go? Am I allowed to touch him?

I taste the broken skin on his lip. I want to make it bleed. Am I allowed to make him bleed? Would he enjoy that as much as me? Can I touch him? Does he want me to touch him? He whispers my name into my (mouth?). He sounds breathless.

“Can I touch you?” I ask. I don't know what he likes. Where does he like to be touched? “Can I come closer?” I ask. His eyes look heavy when he nods. I untangle my (legs?) and crawl forward to him. In his lap I tower over him. When he looks up at me, what does he see? His hands wander, but they fit against me like puzzle pieces. This close, I can feel his breathing.

His breathing is hard but steady. I rest a (hand?) on his cheek and he gasps at my touch. What does he feel? What do my (hands?) feel like to him? Are they cold? Warm? Are they sharp and solid or do they yield against his touch? Is it pleasant?

Kissing Oliver is different from kissing Gerry. Gerry doesn’t touch me like this. He never explored me with his hands like this, never doubled back to linger in a place he decidedly liked. Oliver treats every touch like a first, he hesitates and hovers over my (skin?), asking questions without words.

He places a hand on my (chest?) and gently pushes me away. “I can’t feel my legs,” he says, smiling like he just told a joke. “Do you, maybe, want to move to the sofa?” I don’t want to move at all. I want to just keep kissing him.

“No,” I say. He chuckles.

“Well, I do. So, get up.” Why do we have to move? Why doesn’t he just feel his legs? Why does he have to be so person-like? I do not get up. I do not want to. Instead, I wrap myself around him. He is just the right shape to melt into, though I doubt he realizes this. “Michael, I can’t do this on the kitchen tile.”

“Come inside the corridor,” I grumble. Can I grumble? What does my grumbling sound like to him? Is it pleasant? Does he enjoy my (voice?) as much as he enjoys my (body?)? What colors does he think of when I speak?

He sighs. “Maybe.” What is he thinking about? The distortion cannot dissolve him, unmake him, drive him into spirals. The distortion wouldn’t dare try. He is in no danger in my corridors. Why is he taking so long to think? What is he thinking about? How long has it been? “Yeah, why not.”

I prefer my carpet to Oliver’s tiles. It is always so soft. Sometimes, after a person wanders in and loses themself they take off their shoes or curl up on the floor. This makes me happy. I like my carpet. So of course, I open a door underneath Oliver and we plummet into my fluffiest rug.

I do not think he appreciates it, at first, judging by the sound he makes when he hits the ground. “Ouch,” he whispers, not bothering to sit up. He is not hurt. I am delighted; Oliver is in my corridors, laying on my rug. I feel more solid here. Still wrapped around him, I feel his back pressed up against the fluff and his chest against my (body?) so much clearer than before. I unravel myself to look at him.

He is transfixed, watching the colors float in the air from his mouth, like steam on a cold morning but green and pink and blue and red and yellow. He catches me looking and grins. “Hi,” he says. He is no different in here than he was out there, no less interesting, no less of a person, of a mind, a body.

We both lay in the plush carpet. Does he like my carpet? Is it soft enough? Is it pleasant? He reaches forward to brush my (lips?) with his thumb and watches me change colors under his touch. I feel orange and magenta. The fibers of my carpet sway in a breeze that isn’t there.

His thumb prods the tips of my (teeth?), gently. “You are so beautiful,” he says. Do I look different here? What does he see? Are my edges sharp? Does he mind? “I want to do so many things to you, Michael, but what are  _ you _ comfortable with?”

I frown. “I am comfortable,” I state. I want to swallow him up deep inside the hallways and never let him out. I want him to sink deep into the carpet and stay there. I don’t think he wants that. I don’t tell him about it.

Oliver is propped up on his elbow now. “I mean to say, would you enjoy it if I took this farther than what we were doing in the kitchen?” Why has he removed his hands? Why is he asking me questions? Why is he talking so much? I am still frowning.

“I want a lot of things,” I tell him. “If I don’t want something, it doesn’t happen. These are my corridors, my domain, Oliver. I cannot hurt you here, but neither can you possibly hurt me.”

“That’s… not entirely the answer I was looking for but I think I get it.” I can see him thinking. I can see synapses firing between neurons, exploding colors and sounds and tastes all stored in his brain. Colors and sounds and tastes all associated with me. “Promise you’ll tell me if something’s wrong, though?”

“Something is wrong. Stop talking so much.” This made him smile. What is so funny? I want him to continue touching me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings include: brief mention of surgery for use in a simile, a brief and mild panic attack not described in detail, Michael not understanding or misunderstanding human emotions and consequent actions, sex joke, steamy make-out sesh.
> 
> If I missed any, please don't hesitate to point them out and I will add them.
> 
> 2437 words


End file.
